


Fic Snippet: The Bar Fight

by ffoulkes_no



Category: The Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: Fic Snippets, Gen, short-fic, wishing Tylenol had been invented 1000 years ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 03:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15039719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffoulkes_no/pseuds/ffoulkes_no
Summary: So, a Sorcerer walks into a bar...





	Fic Snippet: The Bar Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Set just as Hrothbert and Winifred are making their (not at all flattering) introductions to one another.
> 
> Winifred's characterization based heavily on cyloran and ja_bucc's many excellent fics.

Hrothbert was tall and lean, long-limbed and long-fingered in a way that suggested scribe far more than it did brawler. But with head up and shoulders back, he walked with more pride than any scribe, and he had the confident swagger of a man who would not hesitate to hit, even where words might have benefited him more.

Winifred curled her lip in disdain, turning back to her friend with a harsh hiss: “That is he. The man from the bridge.”  
  
Anwen peeked around Winifred's shoulder, to get a better look.  
  
“Hm,” she said, non-committal, “he's moderately handsome.”  
  
Anwen felt rather than saw the withering glare Winifred was sending her way. She shrugged, still appraising Hrothbert as he meandered about the room, seemingly unconcerned but clearly searching for something.  
  
“He's looking for a fight,” Winifred offered, sensing Anwen's curiosity. “I have bested him, and now his ego is bruised. He looks for an easy win to soothe the injury.”  
  
“And what will you do for it?”  
  
Winifred exhaled forcibly through her nostrils, loud and long. “I don't know,” Winifred admitted. “If he does not offend me again, what right do I have to challenge him?”  
  
Anwen gave her friend a knowing look. “If you saw that a man was being unfairly treated, does that not offend you?”  
  
Winifred squared her jaw.  
  
A few dozen feet away, Hrothbert was falling to Winifred's predictions. He'd begun goading a drunkard– Hugh, a sharecropper and a sometimes-assistant to the local smiths –with barbs and quips that the poor man's brain, addled by beer, was hardly able to assess as anything other than 'insulting.' The women hardly had time to focus their full attention on the scene before Hugh had kicked back his bench and stood to meet his heckler.  
  
Hugh stood equal to Hrothbert's height, but was easily twice as wide, with arms worked well from his days assisting in the smithy. If Winifred didn't know that Hrothbert had magic running in his veins, she would wager her best cloak pin on Hugh soundly whalloping the other man into the floorboards. But even an inexperienced Wizard could be a formidable opponent for someone who lacked magic. And, though she had handily defeated Hrothbert earlier, it was no judgment upon his talent; rather, his internal magic had not yet reached full maturity, and it would be no fairer to compare a grown wolf with a stumbling puppy.  
  
Hugh was not alone at the table. Two other men, both hands-around-town, quickly stood to offer backup to their friend. Hugh waved them off. The fight looked far more than even, and Hugh wanted to buck the insults with his own fists.  
  
Hrothbert was unfazed by the escalation, and continued his prodding. Indeed, he even seemed emboldened, shifting his weight to one side to take on a relaxed and unbothered stance while his mouth marched on. Winifred considered him for a moment, curious and suspicious at once. But then Hugh had decided to move. Far quicker than his drunken state would have suggested, Hugh lunged for Hrothbert, aiming to ram a balled, meaty fist directly into the other man's gut. But due to magic or just remarkable reflexes, Hrothbert dodged, pivoting around and letting Hugh slide past, face-first and down into the stout legs of a wooden table.  
  
The resulting crack was loud and unpleasant. Hugh slumped there, under the table, and didn't rise.  
  
Hrothbert made no move to advance. He was smiling, broad and cocksure, and seemed secure in his victory. He turned to the other hands, feigning decency, and gave a slight bow.  
  
He was then struck harshly over the head twice in rapid succession, falling forward onto the bench in front of him. He rolled over, raising his arms just in time to stop Hugh's large fist from smashing into his face. When Hugh released pressure to pull his arm back, and try again, Hrothbert grabbed hold of the forearm, digging his nails in, drawing blood and a yelp of pain. Hugh yanked back his arm, unintentionally bringing Hrothbert along with it, and he rode the momentum to come around behind Hugh, dropping quickly into a crouch and kicking hard at the back of Hugh's knees.  
  
Hugh collapsed. Hrothbert scuttled back to a safe distance, then stood, panting and agitated.  
  
Winifred and Anwen shared a look of slight confusion; was this not the same man who had brazenly shot gouts of flame from his fingertips not a few hours before? Winifred felt at the hem of her cloak, finding the rough, singed wool there. Why was he withholding his magic here? There were spells to give a single man the strength of twenty, to make your opponent's bones as brittle as dried wheatstalks. She scented the air, searching for the lightning storm tang of major enchantment, and found none.  
  
Hrothbert, now cautious, didn't dare turn his back on Hugh. Though he was down, it was only momentary, and Hugh did rise up again, slow and with the rigidness that means pain, but also with a full-bodied resolve that generally only inhabits drunkards and men who know with total certainty the outcome of the deed they do.  
  
The rest happened rapidly: Hugh didn't lunge, but advanced. Faced with the surety there, Hrothbert was caught momentarily off-guard. The pause was enough. When Hrothbert eventually did try to wheel away, again, Hugh caught him by his cloak. He swiped at Hugh's face, aiming for the eyes, but only succeeded in grasping at Hugh's shirt collar. He held hard and tugged, desperate for any purchase. Two quick, hard punches made him abandon the attempt. One more made him go slack in Hugh's hands.  
  
Hugh looked down at the unconscious body for a moment. The other two men, now up and riled, made unfriendly motions. Hugh's mind, done with the excitement and readily returning to its' alcohol stupor, took stock of what had occurred, and weighed options; the desire for more beer won out over continued violence, and he dragged Hrothbert to the entryway, and tossed him unceremoniously out into the snow.  
  
The men returned to their table, and Winifred let out a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding.

 

\---

 

The snowbank in front of the tavern was empty. There was a hollow, about the size of a man, laid into its' side, and a slight reddening where blood had mixed with slush, but no one remained to claim the evidence. Winifred blinked, looking at the unmarked snow in either direction.  
  
“This... is not what I expected.”  
  
From behind her, Anwen snorted. She trudged up through the fresh snow to come alongside Winifred, and looked over the scene, herself, “Were you expecting him to yet lie here, so that you could gloat over his unconscious person?”  
  
Winifred bared her upper teeth, “That isn't what I meant.”  
  
“But would you have?”  
  
Winifred ignored the question, and instead gestured to the snowbank: “He's gone.”  
  
“Yes, he is.”  
  
“Why is he gone.”  
  
“Generally, men do not like lying in snow. It ruins their fortitude.”  
  
Winifred glared. Anwen smiled like sunshine.  
  
Winifred crouched down to feel the indentation for any residual magic; unlikely, but worth a try. She was unsurprised when she came away with only the faintest tingle, whatever enchantment might have been present now dissolved along with the blood by the damp snow.

Anwen kneeled alongside her, leaning slightly into her friend's shoulder. Winifred returned the gesture after a moment, but did not look away from the snow. She was frowning, caught up in a thought, “He was not truly hurt. Why did he not just walk home?”  
  
“Maybe he was ashamed?” Anwen offered gently. “He's been bested twice in as many days. Would you want to be followed, if you were keen to lick your wounds?”

“No,” Winifred admitted, “but why lose at all?”  
  
Anwen didn't have an answer. When Winifred stood, she followed suit. They both looked over the scene, again, considering.  
  
“He fights, he loses when he has no reason to lose, and now he disappears with magic, and leaves no way for anyone to follow. He has played a hand, here.” Winifred sighed, “And we have no idea what it may be.”

Anwen was quiet for a moment. She let her eyes wander over the snow in front of her. Then, she bent down to carefully pluck something small and airy from the ground. She held a tawny downfeather out to Winifred, “While we may not know his thoughts, we may yet be able to ask him directly. When do you last recall seeing a nightingale out in the wintertime?”

 


End file.
